Amaya
The morning the news broke, I woke to the sound of my phone vibrating nonstop on the nightstand.
I didn't rush to check it. Just rolled over, stretched, and reached for the screen like it was any other day.
But the second I saw the flood of notifications — press links, messages, alerts — I knew. It had started.
The first headline read:
Knight + Devreaux: Society's Golden Pair?
The accompanying photo was one I recognized immediately. A charity gala, two months ago. I'd been leaving as Christian was arriving.
With Ava Winthrop.
But in the photo now flooding every tabloid and fashion blog, she'd been neatly cropped out. The angle made it look like I was walking towards him. Smiling at him. Reaching for his arm.
"Bastards," I muttered, tossing the phone aside and sitting up in bed.
Another message came through — this time from Hannah.
> They're really running that photo? With Winthrop just… erased? LMAO.
I typed back quickly, thumbs steady.
> Let them run with it. Confirm Monaco walkthrough — 10AM.
> Done. Also, your name is trending. We love that for us.
I smiled, not because I was flattered, but because I'd built something. Quietly. Powerfully.
The brand. The voice. The empire.
All mine.
People talked about it, admired it. They just didn't know I was behind it.
And I preferred it that way.
Another vibration interrupted my thoughts — this time a message from a contact I hadn't saved, but didn't need to.
Christian Knight.
No pleasantries. No sign-off. Just a line:
>Hello. Be at my office by noon.
--------
Christian
She arrived at noon on the dot.
No entourage. Just Amaya Devreaux in tailored navy trousers and a white blouse, sharp heels clicking against the marble floor like she had nothing to prove.
I nodded toward the chair across from my desk. "Sit."
She did. Silently.
I slid a black velvet ring box across the desk toward her. "PR wants an engagement ring. For optics."
She picked it up, opened it, studied the diamond.
Oval cut. Platinum setting. Elegant, but impersonal.
"Did you choose it?" she asked without looking at me.
"I told someone to."
She clicked it shut and set it down. "It'll do."
Her expression didn't change. No visible approval or disapproval. Just pure neutrality.
I leaned back slightly. "There's a gallery event tonight. We're expected to attend together."
"What time?"
"Seven. I'll send a car."
She stood. "Fine."
As she reached the door, I added, "You could pretend to be excited."
She looked over her shoulder, voice cool. "Good day, Mr Knight."
Then she left, unbothered.
----------
Amaya
The gallery sparkled with curated wealth and curated smiles.
I wore a black silk gown and emerald drop earrings. No necklace. Just presence.
Christian met me outside the car. He didn't say anything, and I didn't ask for small talk.
As soon as we stepped onto the red carpet, his hand landed on the small of my back.
Possessive. Polished. The world's favorite illusion.
The cameras lit up instantly.
"Amaya, can we get a photo of the ring?"
I held up my left hand wordlessly.
"Christian, is there a wedding date set?"
"We're aiming for late spring," he answered smoothly.
"Is this the real thing, or just PR?" someone called out.
I smiled without teeth. "Depends who's writing the story."
That drew laughter.
Flashes continued.
And then someone asked the question that sliced the air like a blade:
"Any comment on Ava Winthrop?"
I didn't blink. Neither did Christian.
We walked inside.
-------
The event passed in a blur of champagne and compliments, false congratulations and too many people pretending they'd always believed in us.
Back in the car, the silence settled between us again.
I checked my messages — a confirmation from Hannah that our Florence team had completed the Monaco ballroom layout ahead of schedule. Another brief was coming in from Morocco. I skimmed it, forwarded it, gave approval without hesitation.
Then my stylist messaged three dress options for an upcoming event.
I opened one, a deep emerald gown, clean lines, low back, dramatic in all the right ways.
When he saw the dress image, his eyes narrowed — the barest flicker of something in them. Disapproval, maybe.
Let him assume.
When the car pulled up in front of my building, I didn't wait for him to speak.
"See you at the next appearance, Mr. Knight," I said.
I stepped out and didn't look back.
-------
Christian
I didn't say goodbye.
Didn't watch her go.
Just waited for the door to close and leaned back in the seat, letting the quiet stretch thin.
Twenty minutes later, the driver pulled up to the private entrance of my building.
I knew she'd be there.
The moment I stepped off the elevator, she was already waiting.
Ava.
Black slip dress. Red lipstick. Fury in heels.
She stood in front of the windows like she owned the view. Maybe part of her still believed she did.
"You've got balls," she said as I walked in.
I didn't answer. Just tossed my keys onto the counter and walked past her toward the bar.
"Seriously, Christian?" she followed. "You disappear for a week and then show up playing fiancé next to Devreaux? That photo — I was right there, Christian. Right there."
I poured two fingers of scotch. "Didn't realize I needed your permission to do anything, Ava."
"You don't," she hissed. "But you could've warned me. You could've said something."
I didn't turn. "You broke into my place."
"I still have the code."
"Still means you weren't invited."
She walked in closer. Her tone softened, but her eyes stayed sharp. "You've got cameras. You knew I was coming."
Of course I did.
She folded her arms. "You think just because you've got her on your arm now, you can erase what this was?"
"No one's erasing anything."
"Then why the silence?"
I turned now. Met her stare.
"Because I don't owe you anything, Ava."
Her jaw clenched. "She stands beside you like she's already won."
"She hasn't," I said.
"Then prove it."
Her voice was a challenge. Sharp. Desperate. Familiar.
I watched her carefully — the tension in her stance, the way her chest rose and fell like she was bracing for rejection and craving the opposite.
She didn't want answers.
She wanted me.
I set the glass down, stepped in, and pulled her into me.
She tensed — for a second — then softened the way she always did.
I kissed her — hard. Not from affection. Not from want.
Just to shut her up.
She melted fast. Hooked her fingers into my shirt, pulled me closer, like she was trying to win a battle we both knew I'd never given her.
And I let her.
Because I liked this.
I liked her — not the drama, not the public mess — but this version. The one who came undone when I touched her.
Later, she curled up beside me, warm and flushed, like the fight had never happened.
She dragged a lazy finger across my chest.
"Christian…"
I didn't stop her.
"Tell me she doesn't mean anything," she whispered.
I stared at the ceiling, voice quiet.
"I'm not telling you anything."
She smiled — the slow, smug kind. "But you still want me."
I glanced at her. "I never said I didn't."
She leaned in, pressed her lips to my shoulder, content in that.
And I let her stay.
Because sex with Ava was always good.